


Regrets

by whoms_account_be_this



Category: Degrassi
Genre: gay male author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoms_account_be_this/pseuds/whoms_account_be_this
Summary: After they learn Tristan might not make it, Miles and Zoë bond over their friend.No real season 3 spoilers. Written before season 3 release.





	

**Regrets**

“He’s not going to make it,” Miles quoted, and then took a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It was plain, cheap whiskey that left a bitter taste in his mouth and a fire in his throat, but he didn’t care. “He’s not going to make it,” he said again. “Fuck that.”

Zoë took the bottle from his hands, and for a moment contemplated hiding it from Miles before he went too far. But instead, she looked at it and commented, “I hate this stuff,” and took a swig. It was smaller than any amount Miles ingested, but it still left a burn in her throat that did nothing to soothe the pain in her heart.

The sun was setting now, the warm rays of light fading to the dark of the moon and stars. Two, no three, hours ago the doctors had said that Tristan probably wouldn’t make it. His mother had sobbed, but said it was the right thing to do. Take him off life support, just for a while, to see if he could live on his own at all.

Miles had never met Tristan’s mom before he wound up in the hospital after the bus crash, and thanks to that they would likely never be on good terms. Miles’ cries for just a little longer and promises to pay for it all were drowned out under her harsh words.

“He’s my son. Our family is suffering through this, more than some boyfriend. We need to know now if he has any chance of making it.”

Miles didn’t even recall what had happened – whether it was lost in a fit of rage or the bottle that he was downing, he couldn’t say – but all he recalled was Zoë dragging him out of the hospital and back home.

The bottle was half empty as he took it from Zoë and took another gulp, the burn distracting him from the psychological need to fall to his knees and throw up his feelings from a pain filled place in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Zoë asked.

Only now did Miles realize that he was on the ground, the hard patio around his pool. Were they sitting at the table earlier? Zoë was sitting down next to him, and he seemed to have not fallen on his ass for what that was worth.

“You really shouldn’t drink so much? Tristan told me a bit about last year…”

Miles laughed out loud at that. “Last year was a mess. Blacked out once, did he tell you? Though I don’t remember it myself.” Were his words slurring? What the fuck did it matter? Zoë and he had always seen each other at their worst and accepted that about each other. “Black out. I like that, maybe. Maybe I can make it happen again.”

Zoë reached for the bottle, but he was already gulping it. She chose not to fight him.

“I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry.”

Miles was an asshole. He knew that for years, and now here he was trying to down a bottle of whiskey to black out. He wanted to black out when his friend’s one experience with it nearly got her raped in his own house. What a lousy friend he was to bring those feelings back up for her just so he could forget it all At least he would lose that memory too.

Zoë just sighed, and gave her friend a pat on the shoulder. “Tristan and I were fighting when he got on the bus. He said some things, I said some things - you know, the usual - and we just never made up. Not really. And if,” she took a breath and wiped a stray tear away. “If he doesn’t make it…”

“I fucked up to,” Miles said. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of his breath, sharp with whiskey. Something told him that Tristan would hate it. “I never told him I loved him.”

“Oh,” Zoë said. “Well, I mean that’s normal. You’ve only been dating for three months.”

“I couldn’t even say the words,” Miles muttered angrily, though his anger was muted by the liquid fire in his veins. “I guess that makes me a coward. I merely implied and he let those words flow forth, as beautiful as they are. ‘I love you too.’ He was always too eager, so desperate for me to love him. And I couldn’t even say ‘I love you’ at all. And now I never will.”

The whiskey poured freely down his throat, his body offering no resistance. “The best part is that I know I am relapsing, I can feel it. But without Tristan, who’s going to stop me? Who’s going to make life worth living?”

Zoë pulled him close, wanting to offer words of wisdom or hope, to remind him that his siblings needed him, or that his mom would be distraught if he took the alcohol too far. But she couldn’t get the words out as a dark thought drifted through her mind.

“He never told me,” Zoë sobbed. “Am I that bad of a friend that the boy who wanted nothing more than for a guy to love him couldn’t even tell me that this happened? Even you told me more. Some best friend I am – he had no one to tell at all, I guess.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Miles said, voice altered by tears and the flow of alcohol in his veins. “He understood that you were going through a hard time and pushing him away. It couldn’t have been easy for you either. If you ever need to talk about that.”

“Yeah,” Zoë murmured absently, not really caring about her troubles right now. It was hard when your best friend’s mother was pulling the plug. “Yeah,” Zoë said again. “I’ll let you know when I need you.” She would let him know that he was needed, just in case this alcohol thing went too far.

Her phone beeped, the ever-constant ring of a text. Normally, she would drop everything for it, but she fought that urge. She wasn’t needing for attention, but for the warmth of a friend anyway.

“He was too good for us anyway,” Miles muttered. He held the bottle lazily in his hand, wanting to take another gulp, but his stomach was turning in ways that he didn’t want to worsen. The whiskey had become a stench at this point, and it had done nothing to ease the pain in his mind. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try, so he took another gulp.

Zoë’s phone rang again, and again, and she nearly threw it across the patio before a thought crossed her mind. What if it was news on Tristan?

“Should I check?” Zoë asked. “If it’s about Tristan… I don’t know what I would do.”

Miles thought for a moment, eyes glazed over, but then he grabbed the phone from her hands. His movements were lethargic, and she could have stopped him, but a part of her wanted the pain of being the first to know to be on anyone but her.

“Owen,” Miles muttered. The brother that neither of them knew before the crash, and their only lifeline to news on Tristan as his parents froze them out. “He says…” he paused to process the words he was reading, torturing Zoë with the wait, but also leaving her blessed few moments before she knew the bad news.

“He says things are looking up.”

They both exhaled a breath of pent up pain, their hearts lifting with the first bit of good news in months.

“This is more than I could have hoped for,” Miles said.

“We’ll have the chance to let him know how much we love him,” Zoë said, her grip tightening around Miles and forcing love and affection into him. He wasn’t Tristan, but it would have to do. Miles returned the hug, as desperate for the warmth as she was.

She only absentmindedly noticed Miles drop the bottle behind her and the shatter of breaking glass. She broke the hug to stand up before the pool of liquid could spread to her, and then offered Miles her hand.

“It’s for the best, if you drank anymore you may forget the night. The pain, but also the happiness you feel right now knowing that he will live.”

Miles took her hand and stood up. “He wouldn’t want that, would he?”

Zoë smiled. “He would want you to remember this night, and regal him with the romantic tale of what it felt like when you knew you would see your love again.”

“He would wouldn’t he?” Miles murmured. “I think… I should go throw up to get this out of my system.”

Zoë wrinkled her face, but nodded. “It might help, yeah.”

“And then tomorrow we can go back to the hospital and wait until he wakes up.”

“Every day,” Zoë agreed.


End file.
